What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?
by The Batlord
Summary: Batman opens a brothel and is douchey. Nightwing annoyed yet concerned. Honestly I kind of hate the whole summary thing. They're boring and reductive. Can *arbitrary character x* perform *arbitrary action y* before *arbitrary event z* occurs? Snooze. All I'll say is that if you like foul language, unrepentant drug use, whore mongering, and massive stupid then this is for you.
1. Prologue to My Ascension

**Disclaimer:** If you're a lawyer who's job it is to troll through fan fiction sites looking for copyright violations, then please sue me. This is my gift to you just to give you some kind of a break from your hollow, meaningless existence. I'd suggest introducing the roof of your mouth to the barrel of a .357 Magnum, but if you're not quite there yet then this will have to do.

**Author's Note:** I'd just like to say that I'm mostly familiar with Batman through the nineties cartoon, so I'm sure that'll come through, but I consider this set in its own generic, nondescript Batman universe. A stock Batman world if you will, with no particular history or continuity associated with it. I'd call it AU, but AU is an overused term that annoys me for no particular reason. So fuck AU.

**P.S.** "The Batlord" has nothing at all to do with Batman. That would be totally lame and require the forfeiture of all lands and titles and immediate seppuku. It's a Bathory reference and I've had it for over a decade. If you don't get it then you probably wouldn't care anyway. Loser.

**P.P.S. **That dude who whacked off in your bushes and left the used tissues on your windowsill? That wasn't me.

* * *

**What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?**

**Prologue**

* * *

The city was almost quiet tonight. The screams, normally only interrupted by the gunshots, were nowhere to be heard. The accompanying blaring wails of police sirens seemed to be elsewhere. Even the demented laughter of some of the more colorful denizens of this corrupt metropolis had taken the night off.

The city, usually coated in a thick layer of filth and overhung by a foul haze of smog, had been washed clean by a soft rain so that every surface glittered under the dim glow of the street lights.

Gotham City was positively tranquil.

But on one rooftop, one silent figure was unsilent.

"Fuck this shit!" said the Batman as he adjusted what looked vaguely like hi-tech aviator goggles on his cowled face, "What's the point of x-ray vision if you can't spy on people fucking? They just look like a bunch of skeletons boning."

He chuckled at that, "Heh, boning."

In his cowl's radio earpiece someone cleared their throat, "Master Bruce," said Alfred from the cavernous depths of the Batcave, "Far be it for me to intrude upon your...surveillance, but perhaps your attention would be better served by searching for your actual quarry?"

"Alfred, I don't tell you how to make a fucking Monte Cristo, so don't tell me how to catch fucking criminals."

A sigh. "Very good, Master Bruce. Perhaps you would be so kind as to refresh my memory, but whom exactly is it that we are so professionally waiting for?"

"There's a new crime boss in town. Roberto Costanza. Or Constanza Roberto. I forget. I'm not really a details kinda crime fighter."

"Very good, sir."

"Fuck off. He's a minor player in the New York/New Jersey sex trade and now he's trying to get the edge on his competition back home by expanding into Gotham."

"Because the one thing this city is short on is criminal masterminds."

"In-fucking-deed. Left alone I'm sure he'd wind up face down in Gotham Bay courtesy of the Joker or Two-Face, but in the meantime he's got a clearance sale on underage girls."

"Delicately put, sir."

"Eat dick. And now I've managed to track down his new base of operations: a formerly abandoned apartment complex in the Bowery converted into a brothel."

"And a most reputable part of the city he has chosen I might add. But I don't suppose very many Mafia bosses decide to locate their houses of ill repute in Gotham Heights."

"You'd be surprised, Alfred."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that, Master Bruce."

"Infiltration, Alfred. Infiltration."

A sigh.

"Unfortunately there's no way to connect him to this place short of catching him red handed, so here I am, sitting my black ass on this fucking rooftop with nothing to do until he decides to show up but stare at some shithole building across the street and watch a bunch of skeletons make the beast with two backs.

"Son of a bitch!" exclaimed the Caped Crusader, "That all sounded an awful lot like fucking exposition. God damn bullshit is what it is. And it's pretty suspicious that you, my manservant, someone who has been briefed on this operation twice tonight alone, and been instrumental in helping my investigation for the past two months, would forget the entire reason we're even here. I think you need to get checked for Alzheimer's, old man."

"Charming, sir. Forgive me, but didn't you mention that Mr. Costanza deals in children?"

"Yeah."

"And would these children be those same unfortunate women that you are attempting to 'surveil'?"

"Uh...yeah."

"..."

"Well...I guess it's a lucky thing these goggles are only good for their intended purpose."

"Very good, sir."

"I swear to fucking god, Alfred, one of these days."

"Indeed, Master Bruce," said Alfred stifling a yawn, "But as stimulating as this conversation is it doesn't appear that Mr. Costanza will be gracing us with his presence tonight, and since it is well past this 'old man's' bed time, I believe I shall be turning in for the night."

"It's always nice to see such dedication in one's retainers."

"I would remind Master Bruce that I am currently performing duties usually reserved for Master Dick. If you are in need of assistance then perhaps you should contact him..."

"Fuck him. He's the one who quit. He's the one who abandoned all of his responsibilities. And he's the one who ran off like a fucking pussy."

"You must forgive this senile old man's memory, but whom was it who laid hands upon Ms. Gordon's posterior?"

"I was drunk! And you saw that skirt. No jury in the world would have convicted me."

"And I suppose she was simply asking for it by leaning forward to show Ms. Vreeland the diamond engagement ring that Master Dick had so recently given to her?"

"What's your point?"

"My point is, good night and good luck with Mr. Costanza, Master Bruce."

And with that Alfred clicked off, leaving the Batman to fume alone on the rooftop.

"Smartass old Limey bastard. Fuck it," he exclaimed, stifling a yawn of his own, "Time for a bump."

The crime fighter reached down to his belt and removed a small capsule. Popping the top he put it up to his right nostril and put a finger over his left. With a mighty snort he inhaled half the contents of the capsule before repeating the process with his left nostril. The Batman sniffed a few times and wiped away some stray cocaine residue.

"Fuck yeah!" he said, stretching his arms over his cowled head, "Nothing like a little bit of the Aunt Nora to unclear the sinuses."

For the life of him the Batman couldn't understand how a masked vigilante could live a full, normal life by day and then stay up all night dodging bullets without a little chemical assistance. He couldn't prove it yet but he suspected Superman was hooked on crystal meth (there was no way he could afford to be a cokehead on a reporter's salary after all). Still, it seemed like half the Bat Budget went to the booger sugar these days. But fuck it.

Coked up and rejuvenated the Batman resumed his watch.

"Hello, what's this?"

From a side street pulled up a nondescript sedan. It rolled to a halt at the curb by the brothel and out stepped none other than Roberto Costanza himself with two powerfully built body guards. Their expensive Armani suits stood out like neon lights in the seedy surroundings of the Bowery. Quickly they sauntered into the apartment building and the Batman prepared...

* * *

"Did you know the Amish are running drugs for the Hell's Angels?" asked Costanza's bodyguard from where he stood guarding the door of the mobster's small but well-appointed office on the ground floor of the brothel.

"Joey...what?" replied his fellow bodyguard by the window as he kept watch on the street.

"I said the Amish are running-"

"Yeah, I heard you, but what the fuck are you talking about?"

"What? I heard it on the news a while back."

"What news?"

"I don't know. The News."

"Joey, that is literally,_ literally_, the dumbest thing I have ever heard in my life."

"Hey, how do you know it isn't true?"

"Cause they're the fucking Amish. Why the fuck would they be running drugs?"

"What, just cause they're the Amish they can't be corrupt? Maybe some of 'em got tired of selling cabbages at the Farmer's Market."

"But...they're the Amish. How would they even know any Hell's Angels?"

"You know they do actually interact with the outside world. Maybe some young Amish guy was sick of raising barns and felt like catchin' a sneaky beer at some dive bar and then some Hell's Angel motherfucker saw him."

"What? No. You're stupid. Why would any Hell's Angel think to get some Amish guy to run drugs?"

"Are you kidding? It's the perfect crime. Who'd ever suspect the Amish?"

"Only a moron apparently."

"Hey, fuck you. Just you wait, Vinnie. It's only a matter of time till the DEA raids Amish country and then I'll be there to say I told you so."

"Why do you talk?"

"Both of you shut the fuck up!" yelled Roberto Costanza from behind his desk, various papers laid out before him, "I can't even hear myself-"

With a flash and the pop of exploding light bulbs the room was plunged into darkness.

"What the fuck?"

"A fuse?"

"Must be. All the rest of the block still has power."

"God damn it. One of you assholes go check the-"

The window exploded inward, showering the mobsters with broken glass, but nothing could be seen in the blackened room.

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Shit, it's the-"

A crack. A thud.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

The deafening explosions of three gunshots. Static images of violence flashed across the walls of the office.

After a moment of dumb confusion Costanza stumbled around his desk and bolted for where he prayed the door was. He fumbled for the doorknob for several desperate moments.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!_

Finally he threw open the door and dove into the claustrophobic nothingness of the hallway.

With hands stretched out in front of him Costanza blindly fumbled around for a wall to guide him to an exit. He heard doors opening all around him and hookers and patrons alike in various states of dress and undress blindly fled into the pitch black corridor shrieking in terror. Costanza was suddenly buffeted along by a seething mass of humanity dragging him to who knows where.

In his panic to escape his office he hadn't even thought to draw his gun, but now he drew his Beretta 9mm from its shoulder holster and pointed it at the ceiling.

Three shots rang out, thunderous in the enclosed space of the hallway, and Costanza screamed into the mob, "Outta my fucking way! Get the fuck outta my way!"

But the wails only multiplied and the crush surged all around him. Costanza was knocked violently to the ground and could only curl into the fetal position while he was trampled by the panicked mob.

After an agonizing eternity he was left alone, battered and bruised but miraculously with nothing broken, in the hallway, now lightless and silent as death. The mob boss struggled painfully to his feet, leaning against a wall to support his throbbing left leg. After taking a second to recover his wits Costanza cautiously staggered forward, groaning at his leg and myriad other cuts and bruises, but stopped short when something intangible behind him raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit._

Apprehensively he turned around and peered into the blackness from whence he had come.

"Joey? Vince?"

Silence.

_Shit, shit, shit._

"You...you're there aren't you? I know you're there. You're...you're him. Aren't you?"

Long seconds passed with no sound except Costanza's labored breathing in the murky darkness of the hallway.

"Answer me! Answer me god damn it! You're fucking dead, do you hear me! Nobody does this to me! Nobody!"

Costanza reached for his gun, only to realize that it had been lost when he fell.

"Fuck! No, no, no, no, no!"

He desperately dropped to his knees and blindly groped for the gun on the cold, dirty, concrete floor. He was hyperventilating by the time his hand finally brushed the weapon. With a hysterical laugh Costanza snatched it up and swung it around to point into the gloom.

His only warning was a glint of metal before his Beretta was ripped from his hand to clatter to the ground behind him. No sooner had he cried out in shock than he was seized and slammed against a cracked plaster wall. His teeth snapped shut on his tongue and he yelped as blood trickled unnoticed down his chin to fall onto the black, gloved hands pinning him to the wall by his suit lapels.

Thrust hard against the wall, skull screaming from the blow, Roberto Costanza came face-to-face with the Batman. The darkness was nearly absolute, but a silhouette, wreathed in shadow, could just be seen: black-gloved hands with a grip of iron met powerful arms of chiseled muscle; broad, powerful shoulders from which hung a cape fashioned in the shape of the wings of a monstrous bat; the mask, a face from the depths of every criminal's nightmares, ending in the twin horns of a devil; but most of all he saw the eyes: white, triangular slits hovering at arms' length in front of him, boring into him, their gaze cold and merciless.

Costanza's bladder emptied into his three-hundred dollar Armani pants.

"What's wrong, Costanza?" asked the figure before him, its voice cold stone, "No bluster? No threats? Would you prefer if I was a fifteen-year old girl, you slime?"

They were interrupted by a thump from directly to the Batman's left.

Dropping Costanza unceremoniously to the floor the Batman whirled to face this new threat.

"Who's there? Show yourself!"

With his trained night vision the Batman could see relatively well in the gloom, but he was still startled when out of the room next to him sprang a naked woman, her body trussed up by ropes in a complex series of knots so that her arms were crossed at the wrists behind her back with her legs bound together, forcing her to awkwardly hop forward, breasts bouncing to and fro with every up-and-down motion. In terror she blindly pogoed straight for the Batman, muffled screams coming from around what appeared to be a dirty sock.

"Hey, wait, stop!"

Too late. The girl careened right into him, bowling him over, and they both crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Mostly his.

"Aw what the fuck-get off me, bitch!"

The impact knocked loose the sock and the prostitute screamed directly into the Batman's face.

"Jesus fucking Christ, shut-oomph!"

A generous rack thrust directly into his face in the girl's panicked struggles momentarily silenced him. When he could again speak he exclaimed, "God damn it, calm the fuck down...hey, how old are you?"

"What?!"

"How. Old. Are you?"

"Twenty-one?"

"Try again."

"...Sixteen?"

"Aw shit, you gotta get the fuck off me!" and he heaved her to the side.

Standing up he used a batarang to cut her free before helping to her feet.

"Are you alright?"

"Uh, yeah. Wait, so...are you...are you, you know...him?"

"Him?"

"You know...the Batman," this last was barely above a whisper.

"And if I am?"

"Uh..."

"Would I ever see you in a place like this again?"

"No! I swear! You'd never, ever, ever see me again!"

And with that she stumbled as quickly as the darkness would allow away from the Batman and hopefully toward an exit.

"Hey, you, girl."

"Wh-what?"

"Why don't you rob a bank in a couple years and I'll show you how to use a pair of handcuffs."

"O...okay?" she mumbled, scurrying ever quicker away from this most surreal of situations.

When she had finally gone the Batman turned back to Costanza who was now slumped on the floor against the wall, staring wide-eyed up at the vigilante, dazed and only half-conscious.

"Nice girl," said the Batman, "Bit of a whore though."

As if on cue Costanza's eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.

"Must be a feminist."

As soon as he had handcuffed Costanza the Dark Knight finally heard the approaching sirens of the police.

"That's my cue to skidoo."

Wasting no time he opened a window into an alleyway and leapt out into the night...

* * *

...And into a dumpster full of used condoms.

"Oh god no! No, no, no, no, no!"

The Caped Crusader scrambled out of the foul heap, frantically swatting at the soiled prophylactics clinging to his suit like sticky, latex leeches. Any passersby could have perhaps been forgiven for assuming that he had just walked into a spider web.

"Why are these even here?! Wouldn't all these condoms attract the wrong kind of attention?! And why aren't they even in trash bags?! Who just puts giant piles of used condoms in a dumpster?! Who?! I oughta go back and kick that dago motherfucker's ass!"

Once free of the revolting rubbers the Batman gazed over the vile refuse surrounding him and shuddered, "I fucking hate these whorehouses. There's always something that means Alfred's going to have to break out the color-safe bleach. They need to legalize this shit already so I don't have to deal with it."

With that thought the Batman stopped. And considered...

* * *

Six Months Later...

* * *

Down the freeway on the outskirts of Gotham City cruised a cherry-red 2012 Corvette. It was the middle of the night and the few other cars on the road only served to emphasize that feeling of sweet loneliness that only exists in the silent interior of a car in the early hours of the morning. The solitude soothed the nerves of Dick Grayson to an extent as he drew near to Gotham for the first time in over a year, but even with the calming effect of the road a sinking feeling was settling in the pit of his stomach.

He'd spent the last year on a long honeymoon touring the islands of the South Pacific with Barbara. The sojourn had been necessary, not just for his marriage, but as a way to purge the preceding few years from his system. (It was also a convenient plot device for one lazyass writer. Hey, at least I'm honest. Fourth wall humor FTW!) For quite possibly the first time in his life Grayson felt like his head was on somewhere in the general direction of straight. But the specter of Gotham was giving his hands just the slightest tremor.

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

Honestly, if Bruce hadn't contacted him out of the blue for the first time since Dick had stormed out of Wayne Manor he'd probably have never returned. But his adopted father had called and against his better judgement he'd come. Bruce had claimed to have something very important to speak with him about, but Dick couldn't help but be suspicious. There was always something important, and it always led to the same thing. Still, even if this all turned out to be a waste of his time Dick had some things to do and say that he realized he needed to get off his chest before he finally left Gotham in his rearview mirror for good.

Dick absently flicked his gaze to an approaching billboard and then returned his attention to the dull yellow lines on either side of his car. After another moment he snapped back to the sign which proclaimed something that instantly shattered whatever tranquility he'd been holding on to.

On either side of the billboard stood two rather voluptuous young women in tight-fitting lingerie that left rather little to the imagination. On each of their faces were matching expressions of languid pleasure that promised all the carnal delights one could imagine and more. And with a hand on the waist of either woman, with a grin both friendly and lewd was Bruce Wayne.

Above their heads, in glaring red letters taller than a man, four words seared themselves into the night...

WAYNE'S HOUSE OF ASS

Dick Grayson had about three seconds to process this before his car slammed into the back of the car in front of him.

* * *

To Be Fucking Continued...

* * *

**One Last Thing Before You Fuck Off to Go Smoke a Cigarette or Masturbate: **I'm a shameless attention whore, so I'd just like to add a few acknowledgements to a few bands that you don't care about who have gotten me through this process: Motley Crue (first two albums are legitimately, non-ironically great), Method Man (if I still smoked weed _Tical_ would be one of my go to albums), Machine Head (they kinda suck but they kinda rule at the same time), Warlord (criminally underrated gods of eighties power metal), Exodus (to this day the opening riff to "Bonded By Blood" gives me a shot of adrenaline), Britney Spears (everything from _Oops! I Did It Again_ to_ Blackout _was fantastic), Michael Schenker Group (kinda meh, but "Armed and Ready" is fucking badass), Crimson Glory (another criminally underrated eighties power metal band), Pantera (not a big fan but _Far Beyond Driven_ is quite possibly the most brutal album ever to receive serious airplay), Kvelertak (they had that song during the credits of _Trollhunter, _but their other shit is fantastic as well), the Replacements (they just hit that sweet spot between originality and familiarity), the Modern Lovers (so ahead of their time they sounded like an eighties indie rock band in 1971), Tyler the Creator (new to him, but his philosophy speaks to my hatred of all humanity), and last but certainly not least, Manowar. Hail and kill, motherfuckers.

I don't know what I'd do without all of you. Do something with my life I imagine. Fuck. That.


	2. First Legion: Legio I Germanica

**Disclaimer:** Honestly, I know this isn't necessary. Nobody really gives a shit whether or not you claim to own the intellectual property you're writing about. It's like stealing music on the internet. Sure it's illegal, but who's got the time to prosecute that kinda thing? The only reason I'm doing this is because A.) I did one for the last chapter and I'm OCD, so I'd feel weird if I didn't do one for every single chapter afterward. And B.) I like to put forth my words into the brains of unsuspecting youths in order to corrupt them with my nihilistic misanthropy. Or I'm just a narcissist. Or both. Either way (although "either" implies two choices when there are actually three, but whatevs) I think I've taken up enough of your time with my inane diarrhea of the mouth.

**P.S.** I really like to talk about myself. Tautology is tautology.

**P. to the motherfucking P.S.!** Dude, I was just taking a gander at the traffic stats of my stories and apparently some guy from Qatar read my other one. Do you know what this means? I have infected the Middle East! All bow before My Omnipotent Power! Feast your eyes upon the Glorious Visage of My Other-Worldliness! Drink deep of the Nectar of My Magnificence! Place your insufficient lips upon the hem of my Divine Robes of Eternality! And know, know that for all time, I am and always will be superior to you, oh mediocre denizens of My Grim Shadow. So may it be. So may it be.

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh The Batlord R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn...

Oh and to whoever the person from Qatar is, as an insensitive foreign devil I checked to see if I have in any way violated Qatari internet laws with my fic, and nothing so far. I hope to change this though. Obviously I can't put porn in this and have no particular desire to write erotica anyway so that's out. Let's see...well I'm an atheist, but am kind of over the whole anti-religious ranting thing, so there probably won't be much content that is openly "offensive to Islam". I don't see how I could provide "dating and escorting services" so I'm gonna have to pass on that. I guess I can have two chicks kiss or something, but other than that there probably won't be much gay stuff on here. I'm too lazy to try educating the kiddies on sexual health so no on that. Oh! Apparently "political criticism of Gulf countries" is frowned upon, and while I could give a shit about Middle Eastern politics I am quite salty over internet censorship. So there, if you're reading this then I have just made you an accessory to a crime. Have fun with that.

* * *

**What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

"So, Mr. Wayne...why on Earth have you opened a brothel in your home?" asked the reporter seated at the press conference being held in Wayne Tower.

"And here I was hoping you were going to ask me about the sex tape," said Wayne from behind the podium at the front of the room, "In all seriousness though this is obviously a rather strange move for a company like Wayne Enterprises, but I firmly believe in this undertaking for three main reasons.

"One: that in America, in the cradle of democracy, a woman may have the right to exercise her freedom of choice when it comes to her reproductive rights, yet her sexual rights are infringed upon without a second thought. Some might see Wayne Enterprise's new venture as an example of decadence and chauvinism, but I see it as a blow for women against an outdated system of morality that oppresses women through shame and an internalized misogyny by equating sexuality, and especially female sexuality, with immorality. Sexual expression isn't 'dirty', or 'wrong', or 'obscene', it is a legitimate and important part of any human being's life and should be cherished, not vilified.

"But there are also practical considerations: self-appointed 'moral watchdogs' claim to be serving a woman's 'best interest' by stigmatizing and marginalizing sex work, but the truth is that the criminalization of prostitution has created an abusive environment where sex workers have little to no legal protection or recourse, leaving them at the mercy of violent criminals who force them into positions of virtual slavery. These women, or often underage girls, are likely to fall victim to sexually transmitted diseases and drug addiction, not to mention the physical and sexual abuse that goes hand in hand with the black market sex trade. Wayne Enterprises now gives, and is proud to give, these women the security and legal protection that any doctor, office worker, or mechanic deserves and is rightfully entitled to."

And the third reason you've opened a brothel?" asked another reporter.

"Well...a man can never be surrounded by too many beautiful women."

The men laughed. The women scowled.

"Mr. Wayne!" shouted a third notepad pusher, "How do you respond to accusations that your company has used bribery and blackmail to railroad though the legislation legalizing prostitution in Gotham? And isn't it rather strange that renovation began on Wayne Manor months before the law was even voted on, and completed not even two weeks after its passage?"

"I would say that that was absurd. To believe that any company, even one such as Wayne Enterprises, could have the influence to 'railroad' through such radical and revolutionary legislation is frankly ridiculous. If that were possible then I promise you the corporate tax codes would be in for a few tweaks."

No laughter.

Wayne cleared his throat, "And as for the renovation of Wayne Manor, I just saw the writing on the wall and decided that I wanted to be at the forefront in leading this new social experiment."

"Mr. Wayne," exclaimed yet another journalist, "Could you please tell the country why you've decided to name your new...undertaking 'Wayne's House of Ass'?"

The billionaire smiled, "Well, I was going to call it 'Wayne's House of Class' but I figured I'd probably get sued for false advertising."

The men laughed. The women scowled.

"Now I'm afraid I only have time for two more-"

"Turn that shit off!"

"Sure thing, boss," responded the hired goon before switching off the television, cutting Bruce Wayne off mid-sentence.

"Bruce fucking Wayne," growled the "boss", "That hoity-toity, conman motherfucker. 'Feminism' my sweet hairy nutsack. That pretty boy faggot is just takin' my business and I won't fucking stand for it!"

"Mr. Scarface, your blood pressure," pleaded a rather pathetic, balding man seated on a couch in front of the TV.

"Shaddup, dummy," replied the ventriloquist's puppet sitting on the man's knee. With the powder-blue, double-breasted suit, matching fedora, miniature tommy gun in hand, and long facial scar Scarface looked every inch the Italian mafia don.

Except for being two feet tall.

And made of wood.

"If I wanted your opinion I'd tug on your skirt," Scarface taunted.

"Oh, you're such a joker, Mr. Scarface," said the ventriloquist with a meek laugh.

"And why are you laughing? Don't you be tryin' to flirt with _me_, you queer. Hey, Rhino!" said Scarface, turning to the massively built behemoth of a man sitting to his left with remote still in hand.

"Y-yeah, boss?"

"Whaddaya think, maybe the dummy's so happy cause he's thinkin' about ol' Bruce droppin' his nutsack right on his shiny forehead?"

"Huhuhuh, yeah I'll bet that's it, boss," chuckled the man-mountain, "Or maybe he just likes havin' his hand up your ass." Rhino only guffawed louder at his own wit.

But Scarface was still as a block of wood.

"What did you just say?"

Rhino's laughter cut off as abruptly as it had erupted to be replaced with alarm. "Nuh-nuthin', boss! I didn't mean nuthin' by it!"

Scarface's empty, painted eyes never moved from Rhino, never blinked.

"Really. And what didn't you 'mean nuthin' about?"

"Nuthin'! I mean, I never meant that you liked it!"

"Oh, so I wouldn't like getting my ass fisted by the dummy? So who would I like getting fisted by? Maybe your mother? That fat slut."

Rhino clenched his fists into boulders, but though he could have smashed the pint-sized puppet into splinters, his bowed head showed whom it was who danced on strings.

"Come on, boss. There's no need to bring my mother into it. She never done nuthin' to nobody."

Scarface merely laughed scornfully, "She sure never done nuthin' for me." The malicious marionette turned away from the humiliated man as if nothing had happened and addressed the rest of the assembled thugs and hoodlums, who had remained cautiously silent, "Now let's get down to business. I didn't call you degenerates here to watch TV. You saw that bullshit Wayne was spewin'. You know what it means for our business. And you know I ain't gonna stand for it!

"And now it's time to do somethin' about it. Tonight we're gonna strike at the heart of that cocksucker's operations."

For the next several hours Scarface outlined his plan and went over it time and time again until each of his men knew their roles by heart.

* * *

"The more things change, the more they stay the same" is a phrase that has probably been said in one form or another by every great mind throughout history since man first developed language. From Plato to Einstein, Caesar to Hawking, Laozi to Hubbard, all have recognized this one simple truth.

So too did Dick Grayson upon his first glimpse of Wayne Manor in over a year. The house itself, eternal and imposing, had not one brick or shingle out of place, nor was a blade of grass out of order. In fact the only real difference was that it would be the owners of the multitude of cars parked along the side of the winding road leading to the mansion fronting the bill for their night of decadence and debauchery inside.

This was what Dick had been afraid of.

And yet rather than listen to his better judgement and go right back the way he'd come he pulled up to the front of the house, stepped out of his rental car, handed the keys to the valet, and gazed up the steps to the double doors beckoning him into the depths of the cavernous manor.

The pounding bass vibrating the earth beneath Dick's feet as he mounted the steps was likewise nothing new, and neither were the flashing, multi-colored strobe lights blazing into the night from the windows of the first floor. Pausing at the top of the landing before the doors, hand poised in mid-air, the former Boy Wonder heaved a sigh of resignation and rang the doorbell.

Not even half a minute later the doors swung soundlessly inward to reveal the first welcome piece of his past since he'd returned to Gotham in the form of an impeccably proper English butler in his immaculately proper attire. Though he was too aged to be considered young he was far too dignified to be called old. Even his age was proper.

"Welcome, good sir, to Wayne's House of...Ass" said a vaguely sincere Alfred Pennyworth, "Come freely, go safely, and leave something of the happiness you-oh, my word! Master Dick. I...I wasn't entirely sure you would come...well, no matter, it's just good to see you home."

Alfred's warm smile was perhaps slightly improper but it served to banish Dick's unease. The moment was marginally tainted by the strains of Mystikal's "Shake Ya Ass" intruding from beyond the second set of doors leading from the entrance hallway, but that was only a minor complaint.

"Alfred...it's good to see you," said Dick returning the smile. He wasn't entirely sure what should come next. Logically speaking a hug would be in order, but Alfred _was_ British. So he awkwardly extended his hand to shake.

Alfred looked similarly uncertain, but after a moment declared, "That simply won't do, Master Dick."

What followed next was the only acceptable form of hug between two adult men. You know the hug: arms go around each other to simulate affection while making only as much physical contact as was absolutely necessary to ensure that neither man might infer an "overabundance" of fondness from the other; elbows extended to prevent any contact with the inside of the elbow; only the top of the chests touching lest certain parts of the body develop an unseemly proximity; not more than three quick thumps on the back of the other man with the right hand and the left held just below to avoid the small of the back; then release and never speak of it again.

If you ladies think I'm being ridiculous then just ask your father/brother/significant other. They'll back me up. It's not overtly homophobic. It's just Man Law. Like the I'm-Not-Gay seat at the movie theater. Say what you want but it means I never have to share an armrest.

And so, after no more than five seconds, they separated, both satisfied that they had expressed their regard for one another without any other hypothetical men in the vicinity coming to any unwelcome conclusions.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Alfred," said Dick once full masculinity had been restored, "I don't know what all this...this is," he continued while vaguely gesturing to the house in general, "But at least I know one person in this place hasn't lost his mind...right?"

Alfred let out a well-practiced sigh, "Master Bruce is certainly a 'difficult' man to work for, and the manor has indeed acquired a rather blemished reputation over the years, but now I fear I have fallen asleep and woken up in Gomorrah."

With a wry grin Dick asked, "And what do you think the chances are this is going to end any better?"

"Who can say with Master Bruce? Though I swear I can faintly hear the trumpets of Revelations with every rendition of the 'song' 'Girls, Girls, Girls'."

"I think we all can, Alfred."

"Indeed. Well, as much as I would love to discuss how you've been this last year, Master Bruce urgently wishes to speak with you, so if you would be so kind..." and Alfred politely gestured for Dick to follow him, "Master Bruce has made several...renovations to the house, so it would be best if you would follow me."

Dick nodded absently, "So, any idea what this is about?"

"Not to be evasive, Master Dick, but perhaps it would be best if Master Bruce told you himself. I am sure he would prefer to broach the subject in his own way."

"Comforting."

"Indeed."

He'd had a fair idea of what to expect, but the sight that greeted him when the butler opened the doors of the entrance hall still stopped Dick Grayson in his tracks.

"Charming is it not?" Alfred had to raise his voice over the sudden deluge of ribald hip hop, but the rueful tone of his voice was obvious.

Dick was too stunned to nod dumbly. It appeared that several walls in the main hall had turned up missing, leaving a vast space. In their place was the sort of stage familiar to any man who has ever turned twenty-one (at least in the Puritan pit that is America): phallic-shaped and ringed by gaudy lights likely stolen from a gas station bathroom. It was massive enough to accommodate eight ceiling-high polls, four on each side, with a ninth at the "tip". And immodestly undulating on each of these polls was a scantily-clad, or considerably less than scantily-clad, buxom young lady of dubious intentions.

Not content with this level of lewdness there were several identical, though smaller, stages with several identical, though similarly proportioned, women also tragically deprived of clothing. Not to mention the circular stages sporting only a single poll and occupant scattered throughout the room. Or the women dancing sans poll in cages hanging from the ceiling. And this was all set to a soundtrack that rather encouraged such displays.

An arresting scene to say the least.

No less of a spectacle were the numerous, well-dressed men, whose wives presumably believed them to be on a business trip, cheering and jeering the beguiling ladies who in turn encouraged their intentions with lascivious glances and generous amounts of skin-to-skin contact. And when critical mass was reached between a man and at least one woman he was led away to parts unknown...

Truthfully this sight was not particularly new to Dick Grayson. After all one couldn't spend extended time in the presence of Bruce Wayne without becoming accustomed to such displays. What was shocking was seeing such levels of debauchery in his boyhood home. No matter what excesses may have gone on in this house...this was new.

Dick was startled out of his daze when Alfred loudly cleared his throat. Averting his gaze from the "show" the English gentleman implored, "If you would, please, Master Dick, I would prefer to keep moving. Anywhere."

"Right," said Dick faintly, considerably less able to tear his eyes from what was before him.

Alfred led him through the room, taking a circuitous path around tables filled with sweaty, intoxicated patrons, leaving a cautious distance between himself and the entertainers. Cigar smoke and the smell of alcohol formed a thick haze, lit by the flashing strobes to a nearly impenetrable, technicolored fog that permeated the entirety of the massive room. Dick didn't need to see the subtle expression of affronted dignity to know Alfred's thoughts on all that surrounded him.

Soon enough they made their way across the wanton bacchanal and through a door now only mildly familiar to Dick. A rather uncomfortable silence followed.

"You know," ventured Dick after thirty seconds of silent walking, "Aren't these high-end places usually a bit classier than that?"

"I wouldn't know, but I imagine most 'high-end places' are not run by Bruce Wayne," said Alfred who was visibly relieved to have entered a more subdued part of the mansion. If not for the faint but still audible throbbing of the music one could almost forget the new "business" aspect of Wayne Manor as they wandered its stately, tastefully-furnished halls adorned with well-chosen artwork.

Soon Alfred stopped at the end of a hall on the first floor that terminated at yet another door. Gesturing in that formal way only a butler can Alfred beckoned Dick to enter.

"Master Bruce awaits. And now if you don't mind, Master Dick, I still have...duties to perform."

He couldn't be sure it wasn't his imagination but Dick could swear he saw a corner of the old retainer's mouth twitch in an amused smile. Suddenly wary he paused at the threshold before cautiously opening the door and stepping inside.

This part of the house at least Dick recognized completely. This was the small receiving room that led to Bruce's office past a door at the other end.

"Bruce Wayne's office, please hold. Bruce Wayne's office, please hold. Bruce Way-aw crap that's not the hold button! What? No, no, everything's fine, sire. I'm just-...what? Why don't ya professionally cram it up your ass, ya douche-...FUCK OFF!"

The flustered young woman seated at the desk by the wall between Dick and the opposite door slammed the phone down on the receiver. The veritable Christmas tree of blinking lights on its face spoke volumes. As did the mountain of papers lying helter skelter across the desk that she now rifled and clawed her way through as if ransacking her own work space. In her agitation she took no notice of Dick whatsoever.

Dick Grayson saw none of this. He saw only the woman.

Her lower body was hidden under the desk, but above that she wore a tank top that only marginally resembled the name: it seemed to be made out of leather, red on the lower half, black on top, with a red strap connected to the lower red half and running up and around the back of her neck hold the thing up. The dangerously low cut of the "shirt", barely restraining a violently ample chest, left little to reality, let alone the imagination.

If one could bear to look up they they would see a lovely swan-like neck leading up to a captivating, heart-shaped face...that was painted completely white. Crystal blue eyes were ringed by black make-up that covered her entire eye sockets. Her beauty was somehow made sweet rather than purely erotic by a pair of platinum blonde pigtails. (I'm convinced that you have to be a chick to enjoy describing a girl's outfit. Fuck this shit. BTW, to any girl authors out there, I don't give a fuck what color the trim on your character's dress is or what the cut of whatever boring garment she's wearing is. Please just get on with it and spare me the _Project Runway_ BS.)

The shock of the main hall was a pleasant memory.

Dick opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, closed it, and then contented himself by merely staring wide-eyed. Finally telling himself that he was Dick fucking Grayson and wasn't about to put up with this shit he summoned his courage and spoke with valiant meekness...

"Um...excuse me..."

"WHAT?! WHADDAYA WANT?!" the girl shrieked in a thick Brooklyn accent with an expression that could have curdled powdered milk.

Dick jumped back at her eruption, his courage spent, and stammered, "Um, uh, I'm, uh...here to see...Bruce Wayne...?" His purpose fulfilled he tried not to cower while he regarded her as a deer might an approaching semi.

Like the flick of a switch the girl's wrath became surprise and then chagrin. She lightly rapped on her head with red leather, fingerless gloved hands as if to assure herself of its occupancy and said with a sheepish smile, "Oh yeah, you must be Dick. Nice to meet ya."

"Um...yeah...wait, so are you-"

"Follow mease (sic) if you please, Dick," she said completely oblivious that he had even spoken. In the blink of an eye her embarrassment had been replaced by a bright-eyed peppiness that would have been infectious under different circumstances. "You don't mind if I call you Dick do you?"

"Uh, no that's-"

"Great!"

"But I-"

Without any indication that she was paying any attention she..."bounced" up out of her chair and..."skipped" over to the door to Bruce Wayne's office. She appeared to be wearing spandex pants that alternated between red and black: from the top of her thighs up was black on her left side and red on the right, while below she wore what seemed to be opaque stockings the same colors as her pants but alternating red on the left and black on the right. Whoever was her tailor had obviously underestimated her measurements if the painted-on quality of the trousers was any indication.

With nary a knock or an announcement of her presence the girl threw open the door, planted one foot down on the floor hidden by the door jam with the other held out horizontally, forming a ninety degree angle, and thrust her torso sideways around the edge of the doorway as if to suggest to anyone on the other side that she was somehow defying gravity and standing on the wall, and announced with perky unprofessionalism, "Your next appointment is here, Mistah B!"

"Thank you, Gnarley. Please hold my calls," said Bruce Wayne as if this was perfectly acceptable office behavior. The look of relaxed laziness on his face seemed to reinforce this. Only Bruce Wayne could wear a suit and sit in front of an expensive desk and look any more unreliable. The lack of anything except for a suspicious amount of tiny stems and seeds scattered across said desk may have had something to do with it.

"Sure thing, Mistah B."

Not entirely sure that he hadn't stepped into Alfred's dream Dick entered Bruce's office without a shred of knowing just what the fuck was happening in the world. After the "assistant" closed the door and left them alone Bruce gestured to a chair across from the desk, "Have a seat, Dick, and thanks for coming on such short notice."

"Yeah, um..." said Dick uncertainly taking the proffered chair before jerking his thumb at the door, "Look, don't take this the wrong way...but is your receptionist Harley Quinn?"

"No, that was _Gnarely_ Quinn."

"_Gnarley_ Quinn."

"Yes."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

"Well, one day this random girl, not Harley Quinn, comes in looking for a 'job' if you know what I mean..."

"Yes, Bruce, I know."

"Well she comes in with that accent and a light bulb just came on. I figured, 'Hey, what guy who comes to Gotham City doesn't fantasize about fucking some of the most evil women on the planet? Now we have a Catwoman, a Poison Ivy, and a Mrs. Freeze too."

"Uh huh. So if she's a...prostitute, then why is she answering your phone?"

"What can I say, I kinda took a shine to her when she was shining my knob one day and wanted to have her close by at a moment's notice. I mean she can't file worth shit, but she sure knows how to collate if you know what I mean..."

"Yeah, Bruce. I get it."

"You seem tense. I could call in a girl or two to help you with that."

"I'm good, Bruce."

"Sure?"

"Bruce, I'm married."

"And?"

Dick sighed. "No thanks, Bruce. Alright look, I know I'm going to regret asking this, but I can't move on from this weirdness till I do: 'Gnarley' was the best you could come up with?"

"Hey, you try coming up with a fucking rhyme for 'Harley'. I even looked in a god damn rhyming dictionary and 'gnarly' was the best I could do."

"What about 'Harley Sinn?"

"Do I look like a fucking moron to you? That was the first thing I thought of, but Harley usually goes by her first name so you've gotta change that, and you can't change the second name too or else it gets too far from the original. So yeah, 'Gnarley Quinn'."

"What's wrong with 'Gnarley Sinn'?" It kind of works and it doesn't sound _too_ stupid."

"I thought of that too, but with both names changed there's just too much going on and it sounds clunky. I mean it sounds great at first, but then you wake up the next day and it just sounds like ass. Besides, Gnarley Sinn sounds like a porn star, not a hooker."

"Cause there's such a big difference."

"Why don't you tell that to Sasha Grey. Cause let me tell you she has one hell of a right hook."

Again Dick sighed. "Look, as fun as it is to hear about your adopted father's failed attempt to proposition a porn star, didn't you call me here for a reason?"

"Wanna shot?"

"What?"

"You know, vodka?"

Bruce reached into a desk drawer and produced a bottle of Grey Goose and two shot glasses. Setting the glasses on the desk he filled them both with the clear alcohol and gave Dick an expectant look.

Dick looked long and hard at the glasses before saying, "No, Bruce, I don't want a shot."

"Well, more for me," and Bruce downed first one and then the other and loudly slammed them down on the desk, bottoms up. "Fuck yeah! Dick, you don't know what you're missing."

"Yeah, whatever. So the reason you-"

"Wanna bump?"

"...What?"

From another drawer Bruce presented a notebook paper-sized silver tray with four long, thin lines of white powder. He set it in front of Dick with another expectant expression. "Come on. For old times sake?"

Dick was deceptively calm as he tore his eyes from the cocaine and looked up at Bruce's perpetually adolescent face.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Bruce?"

Bruce threw up his hands in a defensive gesture, "Whoa, hey, what's decaying in your ass?"

"Did you forget why I left in the fucking first place?"

"Dick, it's been over a year. Don't tell me you're still all pissy over that whole ass grabbing thing."

"Fuck off! That's not what this is and you fucking know it!"

"Fuck me, are you still going on about all that sobriety bullshit?"

"'Sobriety bullshit'? Do you have any idea where I've been the past year?"

"Alaska?"

Dick gaped at Bruce in disbelief, "Alaska? Alaska?! You can't even remember where your adopted son was supposed to go after his fucking wedding?"

Seemingly unfazed by anything going on around him, Bruce Wayne said with complete nonchalance, "Well I knew it was either some place cold or some place hot so I took a shot."

"You 'took a shot'? Fuck you! We told everyone we were going to fucking Tahiti so they wouldn't know I was in fucking rehab!"

"Rehab? Are you shitting me?"

"No, Bruce, I am not shitting you. See this?"

Dick reached into his pocket and slapped something small and coin-shaped onto the desk. For a moment it sat between them until Bruce recognized it and recoiled.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah. That's a one year AA chip."

Bruce, with his eyes fixed on the chip like it was a viper, pointed a quivering finger toward the door. "Dick, I don't want that fucking thing in my house."

"Don't worry, Bruce," said Dick, putting the offending item back in his pocket, "I'm sure it won't be here much longer."

"Dick, I know we've had our problems, but are you just trying to hurt me now?"

"Are you on crack?"

"Hey, I've never done crack more than a day in my life."

"You have got to be the world's biggest narcissist!" ranted Dick, now emphatically gesturing with his hands in the air as his agitation grew, "Everything's always about you isn't it? Need someone to help you with your one-man crusade? Give the kid a pair of booty shorts! Need a wingman for Spring Break in Ibiza? Hand the boy an eight-ball! This isn't about you, asshole! This is about me not wanting to be some sad old drunk chasing after brain-dead pussy half my age."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Bruce, I don't even remember my senior year in high school."

"Hey, who was it who woke up one day and said, 'Dude, I heard Ozzy Osbourne doesn't remember a whole year in the seventies cause he dropped so much acid. I wanna do that.'"

"And who was it who bought me the acid and left it under my pillow?"

"I told you, that was the LSD Fairy."

"...What the fuck am I even supposed to say to that?!"

"You act like I'm some kind of bad parent or something. I never even let you touch so much as a joint till you were thirteen."

"Oh, fuck me, my bad! Father of the Fucking Year right here!"

"Damn straight."

They were interrupted by a quiet knock at the door.

"Uh...Mistah B," came Gnarley's tentative interruption from behind the closed doors, "Is everything okay in there? Do I need to call security?"

"Everything's fine, Gnarley. You can stand down."

"Then do you want me to call in some of the girls to, ya know, relieve the tension?"

"I think we're good, Gnarley...on second thought why don't you schedule a few of them in for later."

"Sure thing, Mistah B."

"Can't file worth shit but she's still the best assistant I've ever had," said Bruce turning back to Dick.

"Well it's nice to know you're taking what I've said into serious consideration," said Dick seething as he stood up to leave, "But it looks like this has been a complete waste of my fucking time."

"Dick, sit down. I still haven't told you why I called you here."

Dick crossed his arms and gazed down at him in indifferent contempt, "Thirty seconds."

Bruce leaned forward, lacing his hands together under his chin with his elbows on the desk, and suddenly he was Batman. "I'm sure you've been wondering why I've turned Wayne Manor into a brothel."

"Honestly, at this point the only thing that surprises me is that you still have a functioning liver."

Ignoring him Bruce went on, "One of organized crime's most time-honored cash cows has been prostitution. I'm ending that flow of money."

Still standing Dick raised his eyebrows, "Well now that it's legal shouldn't that happen on its own? What does turning your dead parents' home into a whorehouse accomplish?"

"Since they already have an existing 'work force', not to mention experience in the industry, the crime syndicates would have an edge on cornering the market before any legitimate companies would have the chance to get off the ground. If they had time."

"Wait a minute," interjected an incredulous Dick Grayson as he sat down, "Are you telling me you're doing all this to _steal_ their business?"

"To put it simply, yes. For the past six months I've been putting forth all of Wayne Enterprise's, not to mention Batman's, resources and influence to introduce and pass the legislation legalizing prostitution as quickly as possible in order to give organized crime as little time as possible to react."

"All the while you're setting all this up to catch them with their pants down."

"This and satellite businesses all around Gotham for the less affluent 'customers'."

Dick Grayson was running seriously low on incredulity. "Bruce...what the fuck? Has the syphilis finally made it to your brain?"

"You don't think it'll work?"

"I don't fucking know. All I know is you're a fucking pimp."

"Dick, your prejudice against prostitution is-"

"Don't you dare feed me some bullshit line about 'internalized misogyny'!"

"..."

Dick put his face in his hands, took a deep breath, and let it out. Then he looked up at Bruce, who was still sitting calmly in the same position, hands under his chin, and asked, "Alright, so I guess that's...whatever, but you still haven't told me why I'm here."

Bruce considered him for a moment before he spoke, "Dick, I'm declaring war on one of organized crime's most profitable businesses. Things are going to get violent very soon and I'd like your help."

Dick couldn't help but laugh. "You want me to help you defend your prostitution ring? Has the syphilis finally made it to your brain?"

Bruce was unperturbed. "Forget about me. What about all the innocent people who'll get caught in the crossfire."

"You're Batman. I'm sure you'll think of something. Now if you'll excuse me I have a wife waiting for me at home."

As Dick again stood up Bruce commented offhandedly, "Then I guess I'll give Scarface your regards."

Dick froze halfway out of his chair.

"What?"

"He's coming here tonight. If he's on time, and he always is, then his men should be here within the hour."

"But...how do you know that?"

"I'm fucking Batman."

"Bruce..."

Bruce sighed, "Fine, be lame. Since Scarface controls a sizable portion of Gotham's sex trade I knew I'd have to deal with him eventually, so I've been keeping him under surveillance for months now. Or at least I've been trying to.

"Scarface is far too cagey to let himself be tracked down. He moves from hideout to hideout constantly, with only a select few of his most trusted lieutenants ever knowing where he is at any given time. The rest of his men only ever learn of his location on the day of a job when they are contacted on disposable cellphones which are then immediately destroyed.

"Even his financial records have been a goose chase. Evidence of any kind has been almost nonexistent, and whatever I've managed to uncover has only led to a never ending series of dummy corporations and off-shore accounts. I even spent an entire week following a lead that eventually ended at a website that consisted only of a picture of Mister Rogers giving me the finger. And no, I couldn't get any evidence from it."

"And what about his female 'employees'?" asked Dick as he sat back down in his chair.

"Do I look like a fucking moron to you? After failing to get anything useful from his known associates his prostitution rings were my next target, but apparently none of his pimps or hookers have the slightest idea their boss is made out of mahogany."

"He's made of mahogany?"

"Fuck if I know."

"World's. Greatest. Detective."

"Fuck off."

"Alright, so if you were SOL then how do you know the exact date and time Scarface is going to attack your house?"

"Consistent detective work. I never managed to get his location, but with enough broken teeth I did finally get the target, date, and approximate time of his next operation."

"But how do you know he'll be here within the hour?"

"I had to get you to sit down somehow, didn't I?"

"Cunt. So how long have you known all this?"

"A few days."

"Just long enough to get me here?"

"..."

Dick sighed, "So if you've known this for days, why is this place still open for business?"

"If I'd closed up shop then it might have tipped Scarface off and I would have lost my best shot at him."

Dick barely even had the energy to be appalled at this point, "Bruce, are you insane? You're putting all of these people at risk."

Unflappable as always Bruce casually replied, "With any luck it'll never come to that. I have a plan."

"This should be good."

They were interrupted by another knock, and Gnarley stuck her head through the door, "Uh...Mistah B? Ya know when ya told me to tell ya when that blinky thing started blinkin'? Well, it's blinkin'."

"Thank you, Gnarley. That'll be all."

"Sure thing, Mistah B," and she disappeared as quickly as she'd appeared.

"'Blinky thing'?" asked Dick.

"That would be the proximity alarm. Scarface should be here in the next fifteen minutes. So, are you in?"

Dick was silent for a long moment. Eventually he came to the conclusion that his better judgement couldn't become any more disgusted with him than it already was, so he sighed in final resignation, "Fuck it, what's the plan?"

* * *

To Be Con-fucking-tinued

* * *

**A Semi-Final Note of Utter Gloriousness:** I was curious what you called whatever uniform a butler is supposed to wear, so I Googled it. I found this question on Yahoo Answers and I think it bears sharing:

"Mother and father have recently started employing a new butler for the manor. He rudely asked a question during dinner, but anyway he asked about his dress code. Father is considering starched shirt with stiff detachable collar, with tie, waistcoat and tails. Apparently, this is a jolly uncomfertable (sic) uniform, but i think that the butler should look smart at all times. We already enforce the rule that if the butler is seen by me, mother or father without a tie on, then he gets a 50 percent pay reduction that week. Any suggestions about a uniform? Remember, he must wear a tie, and have a stiff uncomfertable (sic) shirt/collar"

They totally need to let you beat children again.

**More Bands that Nobody Cares About Who Got Me Through the Endless Hour I Spent Writing This Opus: **Alanis Morissette (I love that crazy bitch to death, but I pity any man who dates her), Iggy Pop and the Stooges (after Iggy everyone else is fighting for second place for Punkest Motherfucker of All Time), Velvet Underground (when I don't care I don't care, but when I do they are the fucking truth), Suicide (I've loved Slayer for over a decade, but their entire discography isn't half as creepy as "Frankie Teardrop"), James Chance and the Contortions (calling this "jazz punk" is an insult, but it kind of is), DNA (pretentious art-rock nonsense that I hated, then I kind of didn't hate, and now I kind of like, even though I still think it's nonsense), the Misfits (all praise due to His Supreme Unholiness Glenn Danzig), Danzig (same dude, different band, but both are worthy of your worship), Electric Wizard (doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom!), the Monks (their only album is from 1966 and still sounds like it was beamed down from space), Iron Maiden (I'm listening to "Killers" right now and there is honest-to-god moisture in my eye at the pure metallic brilliance of this song), Wolf (the kickass Swedish metal band that sounds like a cross between Iron Maiden and Mercyful Fate, not the five million other bands probably named Wolf), Body Count (why the fuck is Ice T on _Law and Order_?), Absurd (I have a minor obsession with Nazi black metal, and yes that is a thing. Cannibal Corpse can sing about raping, murdering, and dismembering women all they want but in the end they're probably perfectly well-adjusted dudes just venting some aggression and indulging their morbid side, but you don't get much more legitimately subversive than swastika-hugging, Aryan cheerleaders. The fact that Absurd are all convicted murderers is just a bonus. Oh and their music is pretty good too), Grand Belial's Key (More Nazified metal. Never has Antisemitism sounded so good and so wrong at the same time), Cryptopsy (they do it rather well don't you think?), Malevolent Creation (Florida death metal was just the biz), Angel Witch (you're an Angel Witch! You're an Angel witch!), Trouble (it's a crime that doom metal isn't better known. I mean you like Black Sabbath, right? Course you do), Reverend Bizarre (anyone bored enough to still be reading this garbage is going to learn to like doom metal if it kills them. Go and listen to "Doom Over the World". Now. Shoo), Megadeth (their first four albums [five if I'm being honest] are just as important to my childhood as Metallica's first four [five if I'm being honest]), Overkill (Bobby motherfucking "Blitz" Ellsworth is all that needs to be said), Morbid Saint (as far as brutal thrash metal goes it's these dudes, Devastation, and Exhorder as far as I'm concerned), Morbid Angel (I love that Trey Azagthoth always thanks animes and video games in the liner notes to their albums), and last but certainly not least, Manowar. Hail and kill, motherfuckers.

And just in case anybody bored, stupid, crazy, or musically nerdy enough has actually made it this far then I give you a round of applause and a look of withering contempt. Get a life.


	3. Second Legion: Legio II Sabina

**Disclaimer:** Disclaim this, bitch.

**Author's Note:** Fuck me. As I'm starting this I'm sure even now that this will be late as shit. Saint's Row IV has my life by the gonads and there is nothing I can do about it. I'm sure all my loyal fan will be devastated, but fear not. I don't like you anyway so I will not be affected in the least, which is all that's really important. My saliva in your eye should have sufficed to keep you content in my absence. If not then I will find you and you shall suffer for your insolence. Oh yes, you shall suffer.

So sayeth The Batlord.

**Addendum to the Author's Note: **Holy fuck nuggets! First it was Saint's Row 4, then it was Saint's Row 4 _again_, then it was Mass Effect _again_, and now it's Resident Evil 6 (fuck the fanboys, RE6 is a bitchin' third-person shooter). The video games is taking up all my times. Luckily for me I've now realized that what was going to be this chapter needs (possibly) to be broken up into two chapters. So that'll save the god-knows-how-many extra hours I would have undoubtedly needed to put into this.

**P.S. **I suggest you never read Wikipedia's article on the "List of films considered the worst" when working on fanfiction. It will make you paranoid. On a related note I must now see _Plan 9 from Outer Space_, _The Room_, and _Santa Claus Conquers the Martians_ as soon as possible.

* * *

**What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?**

**Chapter 2**

* * *

"Don't worry, everything's going as planned," said Bobby Gustavo into his Bluetooth as he cruised in a mid-sized tractor trailer down the lazy twists of the road leading to Wayne manor. He was following his orders to the letter and was confident that Scarface would have nothing to complain about.

"No, I promise you I'll be there on time. I already told you I couldn't help last time. The job went on longer than it was supposed to. It wasn't my fault. Yes I know I'm missing _another_ recital. Look-...Hey, that isn't fair! You know I'd be there if I could, but I can't screw up this job. My boss would kill me. I'll make it up to her, and I swear I'll be home soon-...That's bullshit! You know I love-"

Bobby was cut off when his truck was hurled into the air by a deafening explosion that sent it careening over the side of the road where it crashed on its passenger side before finally skidding to a crunching halt thirty feet from the site of the blast.

Bobby was cut off when the ground underneath the left side of the truck erupted, sending it careening over the side of the road to crash on its passenger side before finally skidding to a crunching halt thirty feet from the site of the blast.

* * *

Bobby woke to groggy half-consciousness to a painful ringing in his ears. He could see, but the weightless spinning of the world around him made comprehension nearly impossible. Combined with the stabbing pain lacerating the insides of his skull he was having trouble keeping from vomiting.

In a daze he looked around him.

He found himself still inside the cab of the truck, but was hanging from his seat belt. The passenger door seemed to have determined that it was the ground.

Bobby wasn't quite sure what to make of this.

All of the glass in the windows and windshield had apparently staged their own revolt, but the individual pieces obviously couldn't agree on where to go after attaining freedom so they had seceded from one another as well. A fair few had decided to take up residence in his face. His blood was not pleased at these refugees and was in the process of immigrating to the passenger door.

Bobby was slowly coming to a conclusion on what to make of this. He was seriously leaning toward disapproval.

Just to add insult to injury he was becoming increasingly distracted from his ruminations by a sound other than the ringing. It was quite insistent. For some reason this sound seemed rather familiar...and was associated with great annoyance.

"Bobby?! Bobby?! What the hell was that?! Are you okay?! Bobby, answer me! Should I call the police?! I'm calling the police!"

"I'll have to call you back," and Bobby switched off his Bluetooth. He wasn't sure why, but this felt strangely satisfying.

As if all of this wasn't upsetting enough, now the _driver _side door had decided upon revolution and even went so far as to tear itself from its traitorous hinges to go sailing off into the night.

A ruthless military crackdown was in order before the radio started getting ideas.

But before visions of tank treads rolling over unarmed protesters and public denials of chemical weapon attacks on civilians could start dancing through his head a black-gloved hand materialized out of the darkness and seized Bobby by the shirt collar. Following the hand appeared what the addled driver could only describe as Black Satan.

As in the color black. Otherwise it would just be racist.

Black Satan seemed to be dealing with his own domestic policy woes if his ill-tempered shouting was any indication.

"Where's Scarface?!"

Black Satan was upsetting Bobby's headache, making it even harder to form coherent thoughts, but he figured he'd try his best at answering if only to get the weird, demony jerk to leave him to his insurrection.

"Buh."

Bobby hoped this would be sufficient.

"Answer me! He's not in the truck!"

No dice.

"Abuh. Buh. Uh..."

Bobby mentally crossed his fingers.

Success! Black Satan let him go and disappeared, but he was evidently nearby since Bobby could still hear him. Quite an agitated fellow.

"Robin, I-... What? ...'_Nightwing_'? ...No, no, it's fine. It's really...great...and all. Very original. It's just...well, it's kinda faggy isn't it? ...What's wrong with 'Batman'? ...Hey, hey! Truce!

"But anyway, I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is the field test of the BatIED was an unqualified success... Well I care. But the bad news is that this truck was a decoy. I'm sure-yep, here he comes...and there he goes. So I guess you're up... What are you talking about? My plan accounts for this... What do you mean 'How?' That's what you're here for... That does too count as a plan... Fine. You want a new plan? Here it is: replace your bloody tampon, quit being a bitch, and do your fucking job."

From the "click" Bobby assumed that Black Satan had hung up on "Nightwing". He wondered idly if that had felt as satisfying for Black Satan too.

* * *

"Batman?! Batman! Did he...? He fucking hung up on me!" screamed an incredulous Nightwing. "I knew this was bullshit! I knew I should have just said fuck all of this shit and turned right back around! But do I listen to myself? No! I let myself get dragged into a big pile of shit up to my neck and now I get to fight a puppet! A puppet! Why the fuck is one of the Batman's greatest adversaries a fucking puppet?! Clowns?! Plant ladies?! A midget bird guy?! And now puppets?! Why can't we have some guy with magnetic powers or robot octopus arms?! If we've gotta have ludicrous enemies why can't they at least be non-retarded?! 'Oh, hey, Nightwing, guess what.' 'What's up, Spider-Man?' 'Today I got to fight an alien suit that takes over the mind of its host and turns him into a super-powered, homicidal maniac with multiple personalities who refers to himself in the third person plural. So who did you fight?' 'A puppet.' 'Oh...that's cool too.' Fuck this shit!"

And with that slightly unhinged monologue that should probably have been internal Nightwing prepared for the coming battle with a maximum of grumbling.

* * *

It did not seem that it was going to be Alfred Pennyworth's night. Any evening where it was his duty to stand by the doors of the hall leading to the entrance to the manor and greet the "guests" to Wayne's House of... Ass tended to be a low point in the storied career of the butler/secret agent/co-conspirator to a caped vigilante, but tonight was proving to be exceptionally trying.

Alfred's station was regrettably just inside the "entertainment floor" where Bruce Wayne's ladies of the evening enticed potential clients with alluring, quasi-clothed dances, all set to music that, as far as the butler was concerned, barely qualified as such.

He wasn't entirely sure what "getting low" was supposed to be, but he was coming to suspect that he didn't want to know.

But the offenses of the Ying Yang Twins were the least of Alfred's worries. A "member of the staff" seemed to have developed an unfortunate infatuation with him and was winking at him with ever more alarming frequency, and to make matters worse she had just taken to the "main stage".

The stage was of the sort to be found in any number of gentlemen's clubs across the world, but far larger. It accommodated nine ceiling-length poles, all occupied by ladies who Alfred was forced to admit had certain charms.

And standing before the pole at the front of the stage, dead center in the middle of the vast space of the entertainment floor, with every lecherous eye on her appallingly curvaceous form was a woman by the nom de guerre of "Vixen".

Besides a pair of sky-high, black, open-toed heels and a black thong the only clothing that she wore was a lacy black bra.

But not for long.

Having slipped the straps from off of her shoulders the only thing still keeping it up were Vixen's hands cupped over breasts almost too ample to be restrained by such meager obstacles.

Not that she seemed overly concerned. In fact if her teasing smile was any indication she was rather enjoying being so exposed.

Still holding back her tenuous modesty the wanton woman strutted to the very edge of the stage, her long, lustrous brown hair swinging to and fro with every step, and regarded the raucous crowd of drunken men before her with a lewd smirk on her captivating face.

And then Vixen's eyes fastened upon Alfred.

If possible her smile became even more lurid.

Alfred's face could have been made of stone but for the slight twitch to his right eye.

Her playful gaze never left him as she stretched her right arm to cover both of her breasts and with frustrating slowness removed her skimpy bra with her left.

For a moment she lazily dangled it from her finger as if to offer it to the stoic manservant across the sea of men before casually flicking the undergarment into the now roaring crowd where it became lost in a knot of patrons who nearly got into a brawl over its new ownership.

Running her tongue across her upper lip she dragged her right hand over her breasts, both revealing and caressing them at the same time.

Alfred most certainly did not look at her, luscious, oh so luscious, pink nipples. It would have been ungentlemanly.

The catcalls of the horndog throng became almost deafening.

Now Vixen spun around on her deadly heels, showing off her round, flawless backside which threatened to engulf her flimsy thong, and swaggered back to the pole. With a backward glance toward Alfred she wrapped her hands around it and, with surprising strength and agility, hauled herself up hand-over-hand until she was halfway up the tall pole while the awed crowd of men, now silent, gazed up at her.

Wrapping a leg around the pole she threw her other one out for balance and slowly leaned out over the crowd, bare chest pointed to the ceiling. As she became horizontal her breasts gradually flowed down her chest and down to her chin.

Her eyes once more found Alfred and she smirked. She again cupped her breasts and sensually ran her tongue over the right, circling her nipple. She then switched to the left and lightly sucked the swollen areola.

Alfred most certainly did not look at the saliva glistening on her luscious, oh so luscious pink nipples. It would have been ungentlemanly.

To the crowd's vocal disappointment Vixen eventually released her now slickened breasts and grasped the pole, gently and with great flourish lowering herself back down to the stage.

With a hand on her hip she held the other out to the crowd, waving her index finger back and forth. Whether to admonish or assure them that the show was not over it wan't clear, but they resumed cheering nonetheless.

Either way the show was not over.

While Vixen, who was now clad only in her thong and shoes, stood facing the mob, and Alfred, with her legs held a little more than shoulder-width apart, another woman, only vaguely more clothed than her companion, sauntered onto stage to even greater uproar.

The woman was only slightly less ravishing than Vixen, though similarly proportioned, and blonde as the day is long. With a filthy leer she came up behind Vixen and reached around to lay her hands on the topless brunette's hips, sensually caressing them up her sides.

Vixen closed her eyes and tilted her head back ever so slightly, lips parted in a soft gasp. She seemed to shiver.

Her eyes shot open when the blonde reached her breasts and squeezed. Vixen's mouth formed an "O" as her nipples were softly pinched.

The crowd had again lapsed into breathless anticipation, some even literally sitting on the edges of their seats.

Vixen turned her head to gaze into the blonde's eyes for a long moment before reaching back to grasp the back of her head and bring her into a passionate kiss.

So deeply was the crowd enthralled that they'd forgotten even to cheer. One man hit the floor, his chair upended. The throbbing music was the only accompaniment as the women's tongues intertwined.

After an all too short eternity they parted, panting from desire and lack of oxygen.

Or at least lack of oxygen.

Now the blonde lowered herself to her knees behind Vixen, lovingly running her fingers back down the brunette's trembling skin until reaching her hips.

Lightly nibbling the flesh just above the side strap to Vixen's thong the other woman slipped her fingers underneath the thin strip of fabric and began to pull Vixen's underwear down her legs with painful deliberateness until they were stretched taut around her knees, revealing to all the world that she was a natural brunette.

Alright maybe Alfred looked.

The blonde stood and walked around until she was directly in front of Vixen staring into her eyes. The woman slowly lowered herself back down to her knees, never breaking eye contact until her face was level with Vixen's hips, now hidden from view from the crowd who had reached a crescendo of silence.

Her chest heaving with excitement Vixen entwined her fingers in the blonde woman's hair and at the last moment raised her eyes to meet Alfred's own with an expression of pure lust.

Alfred Pennyworth nearly jumped out of his skin at the sharp jab in his shoulder.

"Hey, Al! Al!" yelled Gnarley Quinn, Bruce's Harley Quinn-themed "assistant", in a thick Brooklyn accent as she waved her hand in front of his eyes. "Helloooooo! Anybody home?!"

"Oh, excuse me, Miss Quinn," replied a slightly flustered Alfred, "I was...distracted. Do forgive me."

A slightly absent expression on her white-covered face she consoled him, "Hey, happens to the best of us. I remember I was standin' in Macy's one day starin' at the same pair o' shoes for ten-..."

Suddenly she cut off, narrowing her eyes, and regarded him with suspicion, turned to look at the stage, turned back to Alfred. Her expression turned sly.

"You dirty ol' man! I knew Pattie's been eyein' you. She's got this thing for older guys. But I didn't know you been eyein' her back. That's so cute!"

Gnarley covered her mouth with her hands and shook with barely restrained mirth. The lack of any kind of mean-spiritedness in her eyes as they sparkled up at him somehow made it even more infuriating.

The faux villainess's boundless cheer could actually be quite disarming. Other times...not so much.

Alfred cleared his throat and refused to meet her gaze. "Miss Quinn, really. I have nothing but distaste for that...spectacle on stage. Not to mention I am more than old enough to be her grandfather. What on Earth would I do with a girl that young?"

Gnarley pointed downward and her eyes looked ready to sparkle right out of her head.

"Well it looks like Little Al has a few ideas..."

Were he not a trained Englishman Alfred would have spluttered. As it was, custom dictated that...certain things...should never be acknowledged no matter the circumstances.

"Miss Quinn I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he primly replied.

"I mean it looks like you have a raging bon-"

"That will do, Miss Quinn."

With the barest hint of mean-spiritedness Gnarley sidled up to him and lightly elbowed him in the ribs.

"Aw c'mon, Al. You know if you hurry I bet I can get you _squeezed in _for an appointment before her show is done. But you're gonna have to tell me now cause she's probably not gonna have two minutes free the rest of the night after she's done. And then she's probably gonna go right home after work to catch forty winks before class."

Alfred's eyebrows rose at this.

"She's in school?"

"Yeah. Well, no. She teaches."

"...Teaches?"

"Yeah, she teaches particle physics over at Gotham University."

Years of dealing with the Joker had not prepared Alfred for this statement.

"I'm sorry, but...isn't a PhD required to teach at a university?"

"She's got one."

"But...she's..."

In an instant Gnarley's boundless cheer turned dangerous.

"She's _what_?"

"She's...far too young to have a doctorate?"

And the boundless cheer returned as quickly as it had gone.

"Yeah she's one o' those child prodigies. She's got an IQ of like 160 or somethin'."

"Indeed?"

"Yup."

"Then why...?"

"Does she work here? She's kinda one o' those eccentric geniuses, ya know. Gets off on doin' shitty jobs nobody wants to do. She actually worked drive-thru at Burger King before she came here. Then once this place opened up she applied the first day. Said it was much less degrading."

"Is that so?"

"Of course not. She's a hooker. But you shoulda seen your face light up when you thought I was serious! I gotta say, Al, you sure got some weird standards."

Only an Englishman could look so dignified yet so indignant at the same time.

But before Alfred could respond to such malicious slander he was interrupted by a loud crash from the entrance hall to the mansion from behind the door that Alfred stood guard beside. Less than two seconds later _that _door exploded, showering Gnarley and the butler with plaster and wooden splinters.

Acting on instinct Alfred tackled the stunned girl to the ground, protecting her body with his own.

After a few moments the debris settled and the only sound was the throbbing of the brothers Ying Yang. Alfred and Gnarley cautiously lifted their heads and found themselves being towered over by a mountain of a man who was brushing dust from his shoulders.

And stepping through the recently widened doorway behind him was a small, balding man of considerable nervousness. Cradled in his arms was a puppet.

It did not seem that it was going to be Alfred Pennyworth's night.

* * *

To Fucking Be Continued...

* * *

**Booyaka!: **Take that, Qatar!

**By the Way: **I worked drive-thru at Burger King years ago, and yes, I would rather suck dick for money than go back there.

**More Inane Self-Indulgence About All the Different Bands that Have Gotten Me Through the Grueling Process of Actually Doing Something Vaguely Productive: **Dio (RIP), Judas Priest (Rob Halford + Glenn Tipton + K.K. Downing = Metal fucking Gods), Def Leppard (I imagine not many people know that Def Leppard actually came from the same musical movement as Iron Maiden and...well if you don't know that then you probably don't know any of their other contemporaries), the Sonics (I'll be honest, I care enough about mentioning these dudes that I just added a sub-par bit that I've been too lazy to do for days now just so I could justify including them. I'm sure I'll fix it sometime in the future, but for now the Sonics are responsible for a big pile of butt in the middle of my fic. Was still worth it), the Clash (overrated but still bitchin'), Suffocation (your anus is now obliterated), Alice In Chains (Layne Staley's tragic death pwns Kurt Cobain's tragic death), Blind Guardian (anybody who doesn't like Blind Guardian or power metal is no friend of mine), Venom (so awful they rule |m| |m|), Flipper (perfect soundtrack to hating the world and everybody in it), Ke$ha ("Tik Tok" might just be the best pop song of the past decade), Amon Amarth (Viking are quite simply the shit. I've already written one story that spoofed Norse mythology and it probably won't be the last. Sigurd 4 life!), Britney Spears (I once decided listen to and review her entire discography as a joke for a music forum and to my complete bafflement realized that I fucking loved her), Tygers of Pan Tang ("Euthanasia" is just one of those songs that can give you a shot of adrenaline no matter how many times you listen to it. Also one of those Def Leppard/Iron Maiden contemporaries I was talking about), GWAR (if there's one band that would be most appropriate for working on this fic it would have to be GWAR. RIP Oderus Urungus)and last but certainly not least, Manowar. Hail and kill, motherfuckers.


	4. Third Legion: Legio III Cyrenaica

**Disclaimer:** I didn't shoot the sheriff, or the deputy for that matter, but if they show up at my front door to arrest me for copyright infringement then I can't be held responsible for my actions.

**P.S. **All this video game shit isn't working. Took me almost a month to get out thirty-eight hundred words. If I keep up at this pace any momentum I've built up is gonna go down the drain and I'm gonna lose interest. So yesterday I said "Fuck it" and locked myself away in the library down the street to bang out as much of the next chapter as I could. Worked a charm. I think I actually almost finished it in three hours. Can't remember the last time I did that much that quick. I guess Satan is with me.

**Coolness Plus Non-Coolness: **Recently got _Arkham Asylum_ (game) and _Arkham City_, the animated adaptation of _The Dark Knight Returns_ (which came with several episodes of _Batman: The Animated Series_), and got _The Killing Joke_ a while back. It's becoming easier and easier to immerse myself in Batman for long periods of time. This is good for my writing. Probably. Only problem is that the comic book shop a few miles away that I finally got off my ass and rode my bike too is now gone and there are no book stores in the general vicinity. Fuck me. And the closest one is a fucking hike. I'm considering figuring out how to ride the bus, or possibly just biking my ass off in the legit (I don't think "in the legit" is a thing, but I'm coining it and will now push it until I see Kim Kardashian say it on TMZ, after which I will drop it like a turd).

Pray for me.

Oh, and the blonde chick with the big tits on TMZ should call me.

**Ultra Coolness!:** Fuck, fuck, fuck! Not ten minutes after I wrote that ^^^ I found a new comic shop on Google that's not even a five minute bike ride from my house. Immediately went to check it out and it kind of rules. Unfortunately I'm cash poor so I had to leave empty-handed, but it's about to be so fucking on! _The Long Halloween_ and _Arkham Asylum_ shall soon be mine. A library, a used book store, a Gamestop, and now a comic book shop all in close proximity? This little shithole I live in is starting to be alright. Now if only there was a music store everything would be cookies and cream.

* * *

**What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?**

**Chapter 3**

* * *

"Alright, youse rich, deviant sons-o'-bitches!" blared Scarface, mobster/ventriloquist puppet extraordinaire, over the throbbing bass of the Ying Yang Twins' "Get Low".

"_Go down_ on the floor and shut the fuck up!"

He cackled to himself for a bit until he noticed that nobody else was laughing.

"Whassa matter? Ain't none o' you fancy pants faggots ever heard a joke before?"

The blank, frightened stares of the patrons and prostitutes may have been due to the cadre of 9mm and Uzi-toting thugs following him into Wayne Manor.

Or maybe oral sex jokes had just lost their charm about halfway through opening night of Wayne's House of Ass.

Either way, swing and a miss.

"I tell ya," Scarface grumbled to himself, "No respect. No respect at- WHAT DA FUCK?! WHO TURNED OUT DA LIGHTS?! I CAN'T FUCKIN' SEE, BOYS! BATS, I KNOW YOU'RE HERE! SHOW YOURSELF!"

The puppet fired off several rounds from his adorable little teeny-tiny Tommy gun into the ceiling of the suddenly pitch black main hall.

"If you don't show yourself in da next thirty seconds I'm gonna start shootin' indimiscriminantly (sic)!" he continued, but the music and the panicked screams of the crowd drowned him out.

"SHUT UP!" roared Scarface's right-hand goon, a towering behemoth with the suitable alias of Rhino. The mob was understandably quieted.

Scarface resumed his threats.

"As I was say- Hey wait a minute! Dummy! Get your fuckin' hand out from in front o' your eyes! I can't see, ya idjit!"

"But, Mr. Scarface," replied the nervous little man in a tuxedo who was "operating" the puppet, "All these n-naked women. It's just scandalous. What would their mothers think?"

"I figure dey'll be more concerned wit' cleanin' your brains offa deir titties if ya don't get your fuckin' hand outta your eyes!"

"Y-yes, sir, Mr. Scarface," he meekly replied before uncovering his eyes.

"Oh, dear! Those are- and that- and- Mr. Scarface this really isn't my kind of place."

"I always knew you were a stone cold queer, dummy. Don't worry, we'll find you a nice little slut and she can fuck da fag right outta ya. Sound good?"

"Uh... if you say so, Mr. Scarface..."

"Fan-fuckin'-tastic."

Turning back to the bemused crowd he bellowed, "Now! Alla youse rich folks are gonna, in an orderly fuckin' fashion, file outta dis dump, makin' sure ta give alla your cell phones over ta my boys on da way out. Den you're gonna sit your asses down on da front lawn and watch while we burn dis fuckin' shit heap ta da ground as a lesson to alla youse for fuckin' wit' my business model! Den if nobody pisses me off and gives me a itchy trigger finger, maybe I'll let you go back ta your fat, ugly wives!"

"And ta da skanks, you're gonna get in our truck, and we're gonna sell ya ta whatever godforsaken, third-world, America-hatin', laundry hat-wearin', Muzzie sand heap wants ta buy ya first. Capiche?

"And don't nobody think o' makin' a run for it, cause I got my boys out dere wit' night vision goggles and bigass fuckin' machine guns and rocket launchers and all kinds o' shit ta kill da Bat, but dey won't hesitate ta turn youse into hamburga."

Scarface looked out at them expectantly, but they only stared back at him in confusion.

"What da fuck's wrong wit' you retards?! Move!"

Their confusion only deepened.

"Uh, boss," said Rhino, "I don't think dey can hear you over da music."

"Oh for da love o' fuck! Will somebody turn dat damn nigger music off already?!"

He turned to his assembled goons, "Youse four, start gettin' all dese fucks up and outta here. Youse two, make sure you get deir cellphones. Youse three, get all da dames in da truck. Youse mugs, make wit' da gasoline. All da rest o' youse who ain't parta my personal retinal o' bodyguards make sure ta round up all da rest o' da richies squirreled away in da mansion fuckin' deir money away.

"And make it fuckin' snappy! I wanna be outta here in ten minutes! Anyone left in da house afta dat gets ta make like a pizza, and dat includes youse!"

* * *

In short order the captives were being rounded up and led outside, the entertainment floor was doused with gasoline, and the nig- uh, the music was turned off.

Scarface watched the procession hurriedly trudging its way out of the manor, occasionally shouting orders or hurling threats. Not to mention more than a few lewd remarks to some of Bruce Wayne's choicest employees.

"Hey, toots! I gotta piece o' wood for ya!"

"Oh, baby baby, I'm 'bout to make sawdust in my pants ova here!"

"And who is this fine little broad? Why don't ya let me apply a coat o' varnish ta dat ass?"

But one face in particular made his mouth operate open.

"Hold da phone! Hold da fuckin' phone! Hold da muthafuckin', piece o' shit, rotary phone! As I live and breathe! Harley fuckin' Quinn?! Do mine eyes bereave me? Get your sweet clown ass ova here!"

Gnarley Quinn "Eep!"'d and froze in the middle of the crowd, now studiously looking anywhere but at her.

Pointing her finger to her chest she replied in a somewhat high-pitched voice, with an amusingly similar accent, "Ya- ya mean me?"

"No, I mean da slutty clown standin' right behind ya! Yeah, I mean you, ya dumb broad! Now get ova here before I start shootin' indima-india..."

"Indiscriminately?" offered the Ventriloquist.

"Shaddup, dummy! I don't need you puttin' words in my mouth!"

"S-sorry, Mr. Scarface."

"Yeah, you're gonna be sorry. Now, skank, get ova here before I start shootin' _indiscriminately."_

The Ventriloquist sheepishly bowed his head at the scowl from Scarface.

"Uh... yeah, sure thing," replied Gnarley.

Gathering her courage, she stood up straight and strode through the crowd with as much dignity as a suggestively-dressed clown with blonde pig tails could muster.

She glared down at the wooden gangster in defiance.

"Gnarley Quinn, 176-53-2470."

Scarface blinked.

"...Huh?"

"My name and Social Security number. That's the only thing you're supposed ta give ta your captors so that's all you're gonna get."

She screwed up her face in confusion. "Ya know, maybe I shouldn't be givin' out my Social Security number. Okay forget what I said. 'Gnarley Quinn' is all you're gettin outta me."

With that she crossed her arms and glared at the puppet with contempt.

Scarface blinked. He looked at the Ventriloquist. The Ventriloquist shrugged. Scarface turned back to Gnarley. Scarface blinked.

"What da fuck? Are you drunk?"

"Nah, I ain't drunk. I'm usually too busy makin' sure Mistah B doesn't choke on his own vomit ta get drunk."

Scarface blinked.

"'Mistah B'? Ya mean 'Mistah J'?"

"Nah. 'Mistah B'. Ya know. Bruce Wayne?"

"Hold da phone. You workin' for Bruce Wayne now? Why da fuck would you be..."

Scarface suddenly looked thunderstuck and burst out laughing.

"Bahahahahahaha! You're a- ahahahahahaha- you're a- ahahahahahahaha- oh shit, I can't even get it out!"

Scarface wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye and composed himself.

"You're a fuckin' hooker now?!"

And he erupted with laughter once again.

Gnarley stuck her nose in the air with offended dignity.

"I am a _sex worker_. A proud profession that brings pleasure and happiness ta tha world. And we certainly provide a more useful service than a misogynist creep like _you_."

Scarface only guffawed even louder.

"Garglin' balls for quarters ain't no 'useful service', ya dumb cunt. Does da Jokah know you're takin' it in da can from alla dese rich fucks?"

"How tha hell should I know? I neva met tha Jokah. I ain't _Harley_ Quinn. I'm _Gnarley_ Quinn."

Scarface stopped laughing. Scarface blinked.

"...Huh?"

Gnarley rolled her eyes and sighed in annoyance.

"I am not the heretofore mentioned criminal mastermind known as Harley Quinn. I neva even met her either. She's just my inspiration. _Capiche_?"

"Wait a minute. You mean you're a im-im-"

"Imposter?"

"Ya got one more time, dummy! Den dey'll be hauling your ass back ta Arkham wit' a shovel."

"Sorry, Mr. Scarface."

Scarface turned back to Gnarley but started at something behind her.

"Hey, who da fuck is dis geezer? If ya don't wanna be Swiss cheese den ya betta get da fuck outta my face!"

Gnarley turned her head in confusion. The mansion was now almost deserted of all save Scarface and his crew, but standing behind her like a protective father was one Alfred Pennyworth.

"I think not _Mr._ Scarface," he replied with disdain, "I would be neglecting my duties if I allowed you to harm a single hair on Miss Quinn's head."

Gnarley beamed up at him.

"Aw, thanks, Al. I knew ya had a thing for younga women."

Alfred cleared his throat.

Scarface's anger had turned cold and menacing as he pointed his gun at the butler's face, who was rather unimpressed.

"I don't know who da fuck you think I am, but Imma 'bout ta show ya, ya ol' Limey fuck!"

"Hey, don't you talk ta Al like that! He was a secret agent, ya know. James Bond and MI6 and Moneypenny and everythin'. He could prob'ly kill you six times before ya even hit tha ground," retorted Gnarley while making hand motions suggesting kung fu.

Scarface swung his gun back around to Gnarley, who "Eep!"'d yet again.

"I've had just about enough outta you, clown. I think it's time I taught you some respect."

He leered down at her body and gestured with the cutesy little Tommy gun.

"Ya got thirty seconds to get outta those clothes before I have Rhino take 'em off for ya. And den you and me are gonna get... acquainted. We only got five minutes, but dat's all I need."

Gnarley glanced at the Ventriloquist, looking not so much scared as worried.

"Look, buddy, I don't know what kinda weird stuff you're into, but I am _not_ fucking a puppet."

Were he not made of wood Scarface's face would have been crimson with rage.

"Oh ya done fucked up now, bitch!"

But before he could start firing indi-india... randomly, several somethings clattered along the floor around them. With a sharp hiss grey clouds of smoke billowed up from the ground, surrounding Scarface and his minions, and within moments the main hall of Wayne Manor was flooded with an impenetrable fog.

Smoke choked Alfred Pennyworth and left him hopelessly disoriented. Holding his arm over his face he groped desperately around for Gnarley. All around him he heard surprised exclamations and sporadic gunfire from Scarface's men, but the strange echoes caused by the smoke made it impossible to tell where they were coming from. Somewhere to the left Scarface was bellowing orders and hurling obscenities at the Batman, but Gnarley had vanished.

"Miss Quinn? Miss Quinn where are you?"

He flinched when his wrist was seized by the grip of what felt like a man's hand.

"Unhand me, you-"

But he cut off when the smaller wrist of a woman was shoved into his hand.

"Alfred."

The whisper came from next to the butler's ear, but it's owner was still obscured by smoke.

"Master Dick?"

"No time. They're covering the entrance. The bar is to your right. Take Gnarley and hide behind it."

Alfred nodded and, wasting no time, dragged the alleged Gnarley Quinn in the alleged direction of the bar.

"Heyaitwho'reyouwhere'reyatakin'mewhat'sgoin'onsavemeMistahB!"

Alleged no longer.

Too intent on his awkward, headlong flight Alfred ignored her. Thankfully after only a few moments a small break in the smoke revealed the bar.

Alfred pulled Gnarley in front of him and, grabbing her by the waist, hoisted her onto the counter in a seated position.

"Hey what the- Al? Whaddaya doin'?"

"Please excuse me, Miss Quinn, but this _is_ an emergency."

She opened her mouth but whatever she was about to say became a squeal when Alfred shoved her over the side of the bar sending her head-over-heels to land in a heap on the other side.

"...ouch..."

Splinters from the counter and glass shards from liquor bottles on the wall exploded all around Alfred as bullets whizzed by his head.

He hurled himself over the bar and crashed on the other side in a similar heap.

"...bugger..."

With a groan and a twinge of protest from his back Alfred twisted himself into a sitting position. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the overwhelming smell of alcohol coming from his jacket. All of the color-safe bleach on Earth wasn't going to save it from the triple threat of smoke, gasoline, and Grey Goose.

On the bright side the bar protected them from most of the smoke.

"Ya know ya could warn a girl first next time."

Alfred glanced over to see Gnarley also pulling herself up off the floor.

"My apologies, but as I said, it _was_ an emergency."

"A likely excuse. I'll bet you just like takin' any opportunity ya can to feel up a young, innocent flowa like myself. Sorry, Al, but I'm a one John kinda gal. Besides, I bet Pattie'd be none too happy if I tried movin' in on her territory."

Alfred sighed in exasperation.

"Miss Quinn is this really the time or the place?"

Her reply was interrupted by another hail of gunfire and debris.

"You're right, Al," she said when the barrage had subsided, and she grabbed a rather expensive looking bottle of Scotch from under the bar. "It's the time and place for _this_!"

And with that she removed the glass stopper, hurled it into the ether, and took a long swig...

"BLEEEECH!

Looking more than a little green she clapped a hand to her mouth.

Her violent gurgling and ballooning cheeks made Alfred fear the worst.

After a few moments and some rather distasteful swallowing sounds she recovered herself.

"Are you alright, Miss Quinn?"

"Yeah... I think so," she replied weakly.

Then she took another swig.

Alfred sighed.

"Ya know, that's actually not half bad," she declared when she'd brought it from her lips.

Then she offered it to him, "Wanna swig?"

Alfred was appalled.

"Miss Quinn... that is an eleven thousand dollar bottle of fifty year old Scotch. One does not 'swig' an eleven thousand dollar bottle of fifty year old Scotch."

"Well, more for me."

In mid-swig there was a cry and she shrieked as a gangster sailed over the bar to crash in a third heap in-between them.

He groaned and sat up, groggily glancing from Alfred to Gnarley and then down to the bottle in her hand.

"Mind if I get summa dat?"

Gnarley wordlessly handed him the bottle and he took a long swallow before sighing in satisfaction.

"Thanks."

"Uh... no problem."

The goon handed her the bottle, climbed back over the bar, and leapt once more into the fray.

Gnarley looked at Alfred.

Alfred looked at Gnarley.

"Oh sod it," he said and grabbed the bottle.

* * *

To Be the Fuck Continued...

* * *

**The Muzak that I Couldn't "Write" Without. Read and Know that Your Taste Is Inferior: **Van Halen (haven't given much of a fuck about them for years, but I'm rediscovering how awesome they were), Motley Crue (there's no particular reason I can figure out why they are one of my all-time favorite bands, but there it is), Warlord (I've never been this in love with a Christian metal band before and I don't care who knows it), Black Sabbath (if I was living in 1970 and put their self-titled debut on the turn table, and heard that rain storm intro and then that three-chord, tritone riff kick in, I would have been done. That album would have been worn out in a year. Too bad Ozzy jumped the shark when he went solo), Iggy Pop and the Stooges (if you've never seen the video of Iggy performing on American Idol and getting right into Jennifer Lopez's face then you totally should. Only time that show was ever watchable), Aerosmith (eighties Aerosmith is duller than dishwater, but they fucking ripped in the seventies when they were still on drugs), Manowar (I've mentioned them every chapter, but this is actually the first time I've been listening to them while working on this. I just love them. Joey DeMaio for Prez. Eric Adams for Speaker of the House), Overkill (holy shit! I've never had an overwhelming need to buy a live album before, but _Wrecking Everything_ is wrecking my ass right now), Nailbomb (hardcore in general bores the snot outta me, but some late eighties/early nineties New York hardcore is pretty fantastic, even if these guys are ripping off _Chaos AD_-era Sepultura), Sick of It All (NYHC at its finest), Agnostic Front (don't think I was ever that big a fan of this band, but perhaps I'm coming around to more and more NYHC), Killing Time (already looking like another good NYHC find), and Bad Brains (never much liked these dudes either, but in my current mood I am not hating them).

**BTW:** If anyone is wondering why, with such uber-badass villains as the Joker, Poison Ivy, and Scarecrow to choose from, I've decided to start out with Scarface, the answer is simple. Puppet jokes. If anyone has any good ones then please send them to me and I'll steal them without giving you any credit. On a semi-related note, apparently I like using the word "youse". I don't know why, cause I'd die before using it in real life. I'm a "ya'll" kinda guy through and through. I guess I just like to use and abuse bits that amuse me till they become stale. I also worry that I'm going overboard with Alfred and the Britishisms, but I just can't help myself. YOLO.


End file.
